


Surprise Parties Don't Always Go As Planned

by fandomfan



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a sign of just how badly compromised his situational awareness is that Brad is, in fact, taken entirely unawares by the Ray-Person-led glut of Marines bursting through his front door yelling a blast of noise that basically amounts to, “SURPRISE!  Happy birthday, Marine Corps– oh SHIT!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprise Parties Don't Always Go As Planned

**Author's Note:**

> For [impala_chick](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick)'s prompt of the same title.

It’s a sign of just how badly compromised his situational awareness is that Brad is, in fact, taken entirely unawares by the Ray-Person-led glut of Marines bursting through his front door yelling a blast of noise that basically amounts to, “SURPRISE! Happy birthday, Marine Corps– oh SHIT!”

No, that’s not strictly true.

Brad is entirely aware of his situation vis-a-vis many sensory inputs currently being triggered.

He is aware of how gorgeously debauched a shirtless Nate looks under him on the couch. He is aware of the delicious heat and pressure of Nate’s hand inside his pants. He is aware of the salty, tantalizing taste of the side of Nate’s neck. He is aware of how Nate’s collection of gasping, whining moans is making his whole body buzz with arousal.

But that seems to be the limit of what his brain has been processing, because he has been thoroughly ambushed by the mess of whiskey-tango social rejects flooding into his home to find him in an extremely compromising position with their collective former platoon commander.

Brad needs to eliminate some extraneous stimuli right now. He turns his head away from the stunned faces in his entry. He closes his eyes, focuses on his breath. He appreciates—fleetingly—that everyone is quiet in their shock. He is aware that Nate has not moved his hand from the delicate location which, a moment ago, Brad was finding exceedingly pleasant. He tries very hard not to think further than that about the tableau he and Nate are currently offering the men in the doorway.

The Iceman is nowhere to be found.

Brad finds himself in the unaccustomed position of being entirely lost for words.

Any second now, someone is going to break this stretching silence, and Brad is going to have to deal with some epic fallout, and he doesn’t know what he is going to say.

Nate’s voice cuts through the silence first. He always _has_ been there to pull Brad out of the shit.

“Evening, gents,” he says, sounding for all the world like he and Brad have been talking timetables and supply chains. “Brad and I were in the middle of something.”

The weight of a dozen Marines’ silence presses in for a few more seconds, and then Ray laughs. He guffaws. He chokes, wheezes, snorts, and makes other, less dignified noises, and the contagious hilarity of the situation catches until the whole gang in the entry is laughing until they cry.

Brad looks at Nate, whose cherry-red mouth is twisted up in a wry smile. _If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em_ , he seems to be saying.

What would he ever do without Nate Fick?

“Devil dogs!” Nate barks. The men fall silent, wiping eyes teary with laughter. “I take it you’re all here to celebrate the traditional birthday of our dear United States Marine Corps.”

“Sir, yes sir!” comes Q-Tip’s voice from the back of the crowd.

“As you can see, in honor of the occasion, Brad and I were also observing one of the Corps’ most beloved traditions,” Nate says in that flat voice that Brad knows is barely keeping amusement in check.

“What’s that, sir?” asks... yes, it’s Christeson.

“You numb-nuts, dick-for-brains moron,” Ray jumps in before Nate can respond. “They’re gettin’ some.”

“Got it in one,” Nate agrees. He brazenly removes his hand from Brad’s pants and angles both arms to rest beneath his head, grinning like a cat with a vat of cream at its disposal.

The men at the door laugh uproariously again, and Brad catches Nate’s eyes with a silent _Thank you_ for taking this serious SNAFU so easily in stride.

 _Always got your six_ says Nate’s look in return, a mix of fierce and soft and devoted that Brad is proudly certain only he can decipher completely.

He fastens his fly, gathers what dignity he can, and climbs off Nate to face the invaders head-on. He reaches for the Iceman, thankfully finds him ready and waiting again, and keeps his voice one-hundred percent flat as he says,

“Gentlemen, I never thought I’d say it, but let’s drink to our hippy-hugging, tax-raising, defense-budget-cutting Commander in Chief who got rid of DADT.”

It’s Ray, of course, who shouts over the answering _Oo-rah_ , “Fuck that shit, Bradley, you sly, rutting beast! This is light years beyond telling. We’ve got a metric fuck-ton of asking to do to catch up, and you best believe that interrogative shit is incoming right the hell now.”

“Well,” Brad says, allowing only the smallest of smiles to catch one corner of his mouth, “I think Nate would agree that there will be no asking whatsoever without copious amounts of alcohol, so you’d better all get your worthless, misshapen, gutter-minded carcasses inside.”

The men cheer and tromp fully inside, and in the ensuing racket, Brad turns away from the group to meet Nate’s eyes. They’re calm and confident and amused, and so fucking green that Brad feels the Iceman falter for a second. Nate, already re-clothed, tosses him his discarded t-shirt from the floor and comes to stand next to him as they’re greeted with various hugs, backslaps, and affectionate insults to their parentage.

As the men move into the kitchen to deposit and start in on the various alcoholic offerings they’ve brought, Brad leans close to Nate’s ear and gives him a quiet, “Semper fi.”

Nate smiles the earnest, easy smile that first caught Brad’s eye on a boot lieutenant all those years ago. “Semper fi, Brad,” he says back, and they advance together into the kitchen to join the celebration.


End file.
